


What You've Wanted

by ShinyMilotics



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Infidelity, Lesbian Sex, Office Sex, Oral Sex, Smut, mercymaker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 17:47:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11423016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShinyMilotics/pseuds/ShinyMilotics
Summary: Amélie Lacroix pays a little visit to Angela's office.





	What You've Wanted

Angela sighs, lifting her reading glasses to rub at her tired eyes. She’d been reading over reports for hours, learning of bad news after bad news. An explosion here. A violent uprising there. Disease breakouts, possibly the result of biological weaponry. Each story different, yet alike in that they mean that there’s still so much more work to be done. Despite Overwatch’s greatest efforts, it still seemed as though they were fighting an endless battle.

She slumps back in her chair, blowing a stray blonde streak out of her eyes before glancing at her watch. 4:33pm. She still had quite some time before she’d need to report to the medical ward. As she’s about to stand up and make her way to her office’s mini fridge to see if there were any leftovers she could salvage, Athena’s voice interrupts her.

“Good afternoon, Doctor Ziegler. Strike Commander Morrison requests that you check the message he has just sent you.”

Angela sighs. Must be urgent, if Jack had Athena tell her to look at it right away.

“Will do. Thank you, Athena,” she responds.

She finds no luck upon opening the mini fridge. All she has are juice boxes and half of a cold sandwich from two days ago. She needs some energy, but not that much that she’d subject herself to consuming either of those things. God, she could use some coffee.

As she makes her way to sit back down and look at Jack’s message, the doorbell to her office rings. Usually, a hologram of whoever had been behind the door would manifest in front of her, but she had turned the damn thing off a long time ago when it had proved to be more of an annoyance than anything.

“Come in,” she says with no tone in particular, almost certain that it’ll be either Morrison or Reyes.

Yet instead of heavy footsteps, what she hears is she clacking of high heels against the floor of her office. And what she sees isn’t a rugged masculine figure, but rather a tall, slender woman wearing a blazer, pencil skirt, tights and office heels. She carries a takeaway hot beverage cup in each hand. Her plump lips curve into a smile once they make eye contact.

“Bonjour,” she greets, voice smooth-as-silk.

Angela’s heart rate spikes. When did Gérard Lacroix’s wife even get here? And if she was here, why hadn’t Gérard called about it?

“Ah, hello, Amélie,” Angela says, needing a moment to transfer into French. “I was not expecting you.”

Amélie cocks her head in that way she seems to like so much, feigning a puzzled look. “Do I need to be expected in order to come here?”

“N-no, of course not!” Angela stammers, words leaving her lips faster than she would have liked. “I…Would offer you to sit, but. I’m afraid there isn’t much available room here,” she confesses. Sure enough, the two black leather couches of her office were filled with books, papers, and discarded clothes — mostly lab coats. Amélie glances around the room, and laughs.

“You are as messy as ever, _docteur,_ ” she says. She spares a quick look at the large window behind Angela; seemingly taking in the view, then steps forward towards the desk the doctor is sitting behind, extending her arm to offer one of the cups she has in hand.

“I brought you some coffee. I…was not certain what you liked, so I went with a cappuccino,” she says.

There was nothing Angela could have done to prevent the way her face lights up with absolute glee then. It was as if the gods themselves had heard her silent prayers. A beautiful woman coming into her office, and offering her freshly made coffee right when she needed it most? It seemed too good to be true.

She sighs deeply, reaching out to gently take the cup from Amélie’s hand. “You are an absolute angel, Amélie,” she says, shivering just a little when her fingers make brief contact with the soft skin of Amélie’s hand. “Thank you.”

Amélie lets out a signature chuckle. “I believe you are the angel between the two of us, chérie. It is you who wears a winged suit to go out and save lives.”

Angela gives her a small smile. “That is far more subjective than you think,” she says. She brings the cup to her lips, taking a tentative sip. Cappuccino may not be her favorite, but it is good coffee, and it’s just the way she likes it — hot, and strong, and with lots of sugar. She has to physically hold back a moan from escaping her lips. “This is perfect, Amélie. I don’t know how to thank you.”

Amélie grins, sipping from her own cup. Tea, Angela presumes. In the fairly short time they’d known each other, she hadn’t come across as much of a coffee person.

“I am glad to hear it, chérie. Someone who works as much as you do always deserves a good cup of coffee.”

Angela blushes — very, very obviously, too. She’s used to people telling her that she works too much and deserves good things, but is not used to it coming from a beautiful frenchwoman with a voice that sends shivers down her spine.

She clears her throat once she sets the cup down, over a third of its contents already gone. “So,” she says. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

Amélie takes another sip from her cup. “Gérard is busy in a meeting with Gabriel. I had nothing else to do.” She takes a few more steps in Angela’s direction. “And I wanted to see you.”

Every voice in Angela’s head shouts at her when her heart rate spikes again. Amélie makes her so very nervous, it’s maddening. And it’s probably because she probably doesn’t even realize the effect she has on people. Doesn’t realize how almost everything she says comes across as flirtatious and downright sensual. Angela swallows hard before giving her best attempt at a fake laugh.

“Oh? I’m afraid I’m far from the most interesting person to pass the time with here.” She pauses for a moment. “In fact, I think Miss Oxton would be thrilled to see you,” she says, grinning.

And it’s true. Lena had not made even the slightest effort to try to hide the hopeless crush on Amélie that she’d developed from the moment they met.

Amélie lets out another musical laugh. “I’ve already spoken to her. She is quite the character,” she says. Then, she places her cup on Angela’s desk, and looks straight into her eyes. “But I wanted to see you,” she says.

Angela tenses. Amélie’s gaze feels like a trap that locks her in place, something she couldn’t escape if she tried. It takes her a few seconds before she can recall the French necessary to respond in a coherent manner. “Well…You are seeing me now,” she says. And immediately after, she wants to hit herself because she’s over thirty, and yet she’s behaving like a schoolgirl.

Amélie leans down over the desk, and places a very, very soft kiss to Angela’s cheek. Angela smells her delicious, ever-present perfume, and feels every hair on her body stand on edge.

“I missed you,” Amélie whispers in her ear.

It’s about as good confirmation as any that Amélie’s flirtatious behavior is being at least somewhat deliberate. Angela feels heat within her as she realizes that this means that Amélie, too, had been thinking of her.

“I…I missed you too, Amélie,” she stammers nervously. “I’m glad to see you. Will— will you be staying long?”

Amélie leans back up, then shakes her head. “ _Non._ Only until Gérard is done with his business with Gabriel.”

Angela swears she sees Amélie squint her nose just a little when she says the word _business_. “Oh.”

She is about to add something else, but whatever thought had been in her head is lost as Amélie circles around the desk to stand in front of her chair.

She bites her lip when Amélie’s talented hands reach over to carefully take Angela’s reading glasses, removing them and placing them on the desk. Angela looks up at her in exasperation, fully aware that her cheeks must be the color of cherries at this point.

 

“You look very pretty today, _docteur_.”

 _You look pretty every single fucking day_ , is what Angela wants to say. But all she can manage is to bring her cup to her lips for another sip. Yet, soon, Amélie is taking that from her too.

She looks back at Angela’s eyes once she places the cup safely on the desk. “Doctor Ziegler,” she says. “Do you like me?”

Angela blinks.

“Of course I do, Amélie.”

Amélie raises one of her perfectly groomed eyebrows, and suddenly the grin on her face is gone.

“Do you want to kiss me?”

Angela freezes. Of all the scenarios she could have cooked up using the wildest branches of her imagination, such a question would have appeared in none of them. And unfortunately, it has much more to do with the fact that this is such a beautiful, perfect woman, than it does with the fact that she is married to one of her coworkers.

“I— I,” Angela struggles, her mind suddenly forgetting how to speak French or any other language.

Amélie comes closer, looking down at her with an uncharacteristically serious expression. She almost looks threatening, and it’s so strange.

 _“Yes,”_ Angela blurts out, though the syllable comes out so quickly it’s hardly discernible. “Of course I do. Isn’t it obvious?”

The smile that lights up Amélie’s face then is so sincere and spontaneous, Angela could die.

“Not obvious enough,” Amélie says. “But I want to kiss you.”

And suddenly, Angela feels something resemblant of anger, because this woman is nothing short of infuriating in the way she seems to carefully calculate every movement and every word and every tone of her voice to make herself as irresistible before her unsuspecting prey as possible. And Angela feels almost _(almost)_ stupid for being the fly caught in her web.

She isn’t sure what sort of pathetic sound she makes before Amélie is leaning down and locking their lips together in a kiss so soft, so sweet, and so perfectly heaven-like that Angela doesn’t want to think about anything else. The quiet of her office is filled with sounds of lips capturing each other and heavy breaths as she mindlessly indulges the desires that had been gnawing at her subconscious for who knows how long now.

And how couldn’t it be so? How could she possibly not want Amélie, when the woman had that soft olive-tone skin, those intelligent eyes, sharp features, and velvet-like voice? She oozed sexuality with every breath she took, and Angela was utterly powerless before her. Utterly powerless and absolutely weak.

Those lips hypnotize her. Possess every inch of her being. Make her forget the reports, Jack’s message, Overwatch itself, everything. She tastes so good, smells so good. And it’s so gratifying, because she’d spent so many nights with her hand down her pants fantasizing about this very scene; but somehow the reality of it seems to surpass the fantasies.

“Amélie—” Angela manages to blurt out in between kisses, “Amélie—you shouldn’t, wh— _why”._

Amélie shakes her head, quickly ensnaring her in another kiss. “I’ve wanted you—” _kiss,_ “for so long—” _kiss._

Angela whimpers helplessly into Amélie’s mouth, her lips moving like they have a will of their own. The moment feels surreal, like a scene from Angela’s most vivid dreams. Dreams that took her to a place where there was no crisis and no war and no Overwatch. And no Gérard.

Remembering his name snaps Angela out of her trance. She almost couldn’t believe how absolutely stupid she was — stupid for letting Amélie come in like this and seduce her with good coffee and sweet words and clever smiles. Amélie was a walking red flag and she just walked _right_ into her charms and she felt like such a _fool—_

“Stop,” she half-shouts, in German, pushing Amélie away with hands on her arms. Angela can’t tell if the expression on her face is frustrated, or sad.

“Stop,” she says again, in French this time, she thinks. “We can’t.”

“Why?” Amélie says.

 _“Why?”_ Angela is incredulous. “Because it’s wrong. You are _married!”_ she snaps, as if it weren’t blatantly obvious.

Amélie scoffs, standing up straight and crossing her arms in front of her. “I was the one who kissed you,” she says.

Angela’s eyes go wide, like she can’t believe what she’s hearing. Amélie was a woman of many grey areas, Angela had figured out that much. But she hadn’t expected one of them to be her feelings towards her marriage.

“That…doesn’t matter,” Angela says. She pauses for a moment. “Gérard is a good man.”

Amélie breathes in, then bends, placing her hands on the armrests of the desk chair so that she’s on level with Angela, looking her straight in the eye.  
“Is he now, _docteur?_ Do you know that for certain? And even if he is, does that change the fact that you so very obviously want me?”

Angela bites her lip. She wants to pull her gaze away from Amélie’s, but something holds her there, and she cannot escape it.

“Just…just because I want it doesn’t mean I should pursue it,” Angela says.

Amélie laughs, low and soft. “How very wise. So fitting of you, Doctor Ziegler.” She takes Angela’s chin into her hand.

“I’m going to kiss you again. Are you going to let me?”

“I…I—”

She inches closer. “Well?”

Angela wants to scream. Her legs twitch. Her muscles tense. She can feel the inside of her body turning to fire. The desire is intense and overpowering, yet it feels like it’s stuck at her throat, so very desperate to escape yet still held back by one single obstacle.

She closes her eyes and swallows hard. She doesn’t know what comes over her, but she isn’t strong enough to hold back anymore. So she surrenders. The demons inside her shout too loud, and she’s too worn to fight back. Her soul is already past the point of salvation, anyway.

“Yes,” she breathes, finally. “I will let you.”

Amélie grins ear to ear. “Good,” she says. She then smoothes her hand to the back of Angela’s neck, and pulls her back in for another kiss.

This one is different from the last. Where their initial kiss had been gentle and explorative, this one is intense and resolute and full of heat. Amélie throws herself into it, leaning into Angela, pushing her tongue between Angela’s lips, pleased to find little to no resistance. Her mouth envelops Angela’s, pulling her in and easily taking over.

Angela groans into her mouth, and Amélie goes further, deepening the kiss and straightening her grip on the back of Angela’s neck. And Angela, helpless to resist and no longer trying to fight it, yields to Amélie in every sense of the word. Her limbs go soft, her lips malleable for Amélie to bend to her will.

 _“So good,”_ Amélie breathes when they briefly pull away for air, re-capturing Angela’s lips within a mere second. She’s using all of her mouth; using her teeth, capturing Angela’s bottom lip and sucking on it until it’s swollen and red.

When she pushes Angela away, causing her desk chair to roll back a few inches, Angela is dizzy. Her eyes focus on an Amélie that is undoing the buttons of her blazer, and taking it off.  
“Will anyone interrupt us?” she asks, quietly.

Angela shakes her heard. “I will not be needed for at least another hour,” Angela says.

“Good,” Amélie says. She unfastens the top buttons of her white under-shirt, then goes back to kissing Angela with just as much ferocity as she had been a moment ago.

And Angela sighs into her mouth, no longer inhibited by the infinite voices in her head screaming at her to stop, to realize how terrible an idea all of this is. She resigns to the innermost desires of her id, losing herself in the moment to deal with the consequences of it later.

Amélie swiftly responds, setting her knees on either side of Angela’s thighs to straddle her. The chair creaks in protest, but stays upright nonetheless. Amélie moves her slender hips, grinding herself into Angela as they make out. And Angela tangles her fingers in Amélie’s ponytail, absolutely enraptured.

Amélie pulls away then, supporting her weight with one hand on the chair’s armrest, and the other at the back of Angela’s neck. _“Mm,”_ she moans, shamelessly humping Angela through their clothes with all the calculated grace of a dancer.

Angela puts her hands on Amélie’s waist, pushing and pulling her as she moves her hips. She bites her lip, stifling a breathy moan that fights to escape her. It’s altogether too good to believe — that she’s just been re-fueled by a cup of good coffee, and now Amélie Lacroix herself is gratuitously grinding on her lap, top buttons undone and a flush coloring her pretty cheeks.

Amélie leans down and kisses her again, her mouth hungrily enveloping Angela’s. The slight physical strain she’s in becomes noticeable by how soon she pulls away this time, gasping slightly when their lips come apart with a lewd, wet sound.

She nuzzles her way up Angela’s cheek, the side of her face, till her lips are next to her ear and her voice is but a hushed purr. “I want you,” she breathes, letting her lips and tongue kiss at the skin of Angela’s ear ever so slightly. _“I want you, mon ange.”_

Angela’s eyes shut tight in torturous restraint, because god she wants Amélie too. She wants her so fucking bad and has for the longest time and she almost wants to shout it, because they’re already here and she’s already surrendered and she just wants to wants to yell at Amélie to cut the crap and just _fuck_ her already—

It takes Amélie’s lips pulling at the skin of her neck for Angela to snap out of whatever reverie she had just been in. She moans, hands instinctively shooting up to hold Amélie against her neck as she kisses, licks, sucks at it. And Angela is so _thankful_ because Amélie seems to have kept in mind the fact that they don’t have time to waste; seems dead-set on marking up Angela like she’s her territory and it’s all making Angela so very _wet._

Amélie releases Angela’s neck with a pop sound, leaving the skin there sensitive and bruised and wet. She grins to herself, because it seems so very fitting for the good doctor to have her neck made a mess of.

She isn’t done with her yet, though.

Before Angela has the chance to collect herself, Amélie is undoing buttons and parting her lab coat, letting it gently slip off of Angela’s shoulders. She then grabs the bottom of Angela’s cotton-woven long-sleeve shirt, pulling it upwards, very pleased when Angela lifts her arms in compliance. She easily slips it off of her, setting it on the table.

Amélie sighs deeply then, her eyes scanning Angela’s semi-naked chest without a hint of inhibition. And Angela flushes deeply, feeling heat prodding at her ears.

“You’re so beautiful, _mon ange,”_ Amélie coos, voice like honey. The answer she receives is little more than a desperate whimper.

Amélie then carefully reaches behind Angela, hands searching for the clasp of her bra. “May I?” she asks, gaze burning intensely into Angela’s. “Please,” the doctor answers.

Pleased with that response, Amélie’s deft fingers quickly and easily undo Angela’s bra, letting the pretty white thing slip down her arms. She breathes in deeply when she takes in the sight of those lovely breasts, so pretty and exposed for her.

“Amélie,” Angela says, and it’s nothing if not a plea. Her eyebrows are quirked upwards. She really is an angel, begging to be defiled. “Please.”

“Mm,” Amélie hums. “You’ve no idea how much I’ve longed to hear you plead me to touch you, _mon ange,”._

With that, she takes Angela’s breasts in her hand, her features contorting into an expression of utter adoration. She, too, needs to stifle a moan then, because they’re so beautiful and soft and fit so perfectly in her hands. She kneads at them, hoisting them up once, twice, daring to squeeze at the sensitive nipples with the sides of her fingers.

Angela’s hand crawls up Amélie’s spine, fingers indiscreetly tangling themselves in her ponytail. _“I want your mouth,”_ Angela whispers, hushed and desperate like she’s on the verge of losing control.

Amélie hums with a practiced impassiveness, because she’d never let on just how much Angela’s pleading was like music to her ears. She leans down and languidly touches her lips to Angela’s pert nipple, gliding over it, getting it glistening and wet.

Angela’s mouth smoothes into a thin line as she glances down at Amélie with nothing shorter of bliss, fighting the incriminating sounds that try to escape her. This entire ordeal would be decidedly worse if she moaned as much as she wished she could.  
Amélie’s mouth is skilled, the movements of her lips and tongue somehow seeming both thoroughly practiced and especially tailored for Angela’s taste. She could drown in the sensation of that hot tongue pushing against her nipple, those teeth squeezing and lightly (and sometimes not-so-lightly) pulling at it.

Her nails run repeatedly over Amélie’s scalp, an almost unconscious display of appreciation for the service she’s being treated to. It’s taking her all of her well trained self control to not beg Amélie to put her hand in her pants right now, lest she do it herself.

 _“Amélie,”_ she murmurs, without thinking, as her spine contorts and her body is set aflame, desperate for friction, relief, something, anything.

But still Amélie takes her sweet time, losing herself in the moment, because she finally, finally has the pretty doctor all to herself, helpless and squirming under her touch. She’d spent far too long dreaming about it.

Angela yelps when Amélie’s teeth come down in a particularly harsh bite, German curses mindlessly escaping her lips, because god it hurts, but hurts so good. The corner of Amélie’s lips curve upwards just a bit, as she takes a mental note that the good doctor likes to be hurt.

And she does. She likes it. She wants it, all of it. The gentle caresses of Amélie’s hands, the hot swipes of her tongue, the harsh bites of her teeth —

Amélie pulls away suddenly, leaving Angela feeling slightly self conscious, sitting half-naked at her desk, face flushed, breasts glistening and bruised.

Amélie studies that image for a moment, looking rather pleased with herself. She wants to embed it in her mind so she can remember it at a later time, when she’s alone and longing for her Angela.

 _Her Angela_ , she thinks. _How pathetic._

Angela extends her hands out to Amélie, and she’s puzzled for a moment, but takes them nonetheless. Angela pulls her in, forcing her to lean back down again, and kisses her, hard and longing, and it’s her way of telling Amélie please, don’t stop just yet. I need more.

Amélie breathes something when they pull away, just a whisper. _“Ma jolie docteur,”_ She kisses again, “ _Je t’adore.”_ Again.

She isn’t certain if Angela heard her, but hopes, for the good of them both, that she didn’t.

Before the high can fade, she drops to her knees in front of Angela’s chair. Angela is about to question her, because it feels like it should be the appropriate thing to do when a married woman kneels in front of your half naked self —

But all too quickly, Amélie fingers are fumbling with the top of her pants, undoing the buttons and pulling down the zipper.

_“Amélie—”_

Amélie gives no verbal response. She looks up to meet Angela’s gaze, a grin well formed on her lips, as she reaches around to the waistband of her pants.

Any forced protests Angela may have had die at her throat. She lifts herself up from the chair so Amélie can pull her pants down and off. And Amélie bites her lip, eyes quite shamelessly taking in the sight of Angela’s pale, beautiful legs.

 _“Mm,”_ she hums, leaning forward. She inhales, touching her cheek to the inside of Angela’s thigh. She smells so good, and the very thing she’d been secretly coveting for so long is right in front of her for the taking and she can hardly control herself.

A low sound of amusement leaves her when she eyes the very obvious mess that has become of Angela’s pretty white panties. _“Chérie,”_ she purrs, pressing a soft kiss to the skin of Angela’s thigh. “You are wet.”

It’s not a question but a statement of fact, and Angela has nothing to say for herself. She shudders, goosebumps covering her skin, and she spreads her legs just a little bit wider for Amélie.

Amélie quietly hums again, then lifts her hand to slowly, slowly run the tips of her middle and index fingers down Angela’s still-covered slit. She almost moans. Angela is so very wet, her panties are little more than a sorry piece of wet cotton.

“Please,” Angela says.

“Mm,” Amélie purrs. “I’m going to eat you up, _chérie_.” She isn’t certain if she says that part aloud or not, but nevertheless she leans in to press her mouth into the dripping space between Angela’s legs.

So hot. So wet. Even with the thin cotton fabric between them, Amélie feels as though she never wants to move from there again. As though right there, between Angela’s thighs and with her mouth pressing into the heat of her cunt is exactly where she’s meant to be.

A languid, continuous moan escapes Angela as she grips the armrests of her chair until her knuckles turn white. _“Scheisse —”_

Amélie groans once, twice. She bobs her head up and down, pressing her lips and nose into Angela’s center. It’s so good, so good, everything she’s ever dreamed of. She can’t believe it’s there, there she has Angela right where she wants her, that —

 _“Amélie,”_ Angela’s sudden, exasperated voice cuts her daydreams short, “Amélie, _mein gott_ , please eat me out, I can’t—”

Amélie smirks, pressing down just a little bit harder. “You want this so badly, don’t you, chérie. You want to feel my mouth on you.”

“Yes. Yes, I do, Amélie _please, —”_

Amélie teases her just a little bit longer. She closes her eyes and pushes her mouth against Angela’s clothed cunt, reveling in the absolute mess she's making.

And Angela feels like she’s going crazy, because she can feel Amélie’s lips and tongue, hot against her labia and her clit, but with barrier of her panties still there it's just not _enough._

A low growl of frustration escapes her, one of her hands pulling hard at Amélie’s hair and her teeth biting down on her bottom lip. It’s the cue Amélie needed to conclude that she’d teased enough.

In a swift motion, she grabs the sides of Angela’s panties and tugs them down. They're an absolute mess. Amélie smirks when she tosses them to side, then turns her attention back to the angel before her.

And what a sight she is. Her face flustered and red, her legs spread, her cunt absolutely drenched.

Amélie moans, then brings two of her fingers into her mouth. Angela watches as she sucks on them for a long moment, the image so erotic she feels her stomach sink with arousal. And not a moment too soon, Amélie leans down to take Angela’s needy clit into her mouth, and plunges one of her fingers inside.

The sound that leaves Angela then is a long, high pitched moan. A second later, her hands cover her mouth. She doubts anybody would be able to hear her, but still it all seems so much more sinful to her if she lets herself be loud.

“Amélie, oh _fuck,_ Amélie—”

Amélie pushes another finger inside. Angela is perfection. Her cunt tastes so good, feels so good wrapping tightly around her fingers. She presses her tongue flat against Angela’s clit, moving it from side to side in long strokes as her fingers pump in and out of her.

She feels like she’s drunk. Like she never wants to leave there again. She’d spent so long thinking and daydreaming about tasting Angela, with her hands between her legs more often than not. The pretty doctor had enticed her, and the feeling of finally having that pussy all for herself, if only for a moment, was absolutely intoxicating.

She pumps her fingers faster. She takes Angela’s clit into her mouth and sucks, letting her tongue flick it over and over. And Angela squirms beneath her, seemingly not knowing what to do with herself. The office because a symphony of her moans and gasps, and the wet sounds of Amélie’s mouth and fingers fucking her.

“Amélie, you’re so fucking _good,_ please, _harder—”_

Amélie can feel Angela closer. “Mm. You like that, don’t you, _chérie?”_

“Yes. Yes. I love it. I love i— ah, _fuck!”_

Amélie pumps her harder. Harder. She sucks Angela’s clit deeper into her mouth, lets her teeth nibble on it slightly.

“Mm, you’re clenching around me, chérie. Are you close?”

“So close, so— _ah,_ close, Amélie, don’t stop—”

“That’s it, docteur. Let go. Let go for me.”

Angela’s vision goes white. The pleasure starting at her groin radiates towards the rest of her body. Her breath gets shallower. Her heart races.

“Yes, that’s it, Amélie, Amélie, _FUCK!!—”_

Angela comes hard. Her hips grind shamelessly into Amélie’s face as her orgasm takes control of her. She lets out high pitched whimpers, tears threatening to fall from the corners of her eyes. It lasts much longer than she ever thought was within her realm of possibility.

As she high comes down, her body twitches in short spasms. Amélie slowly, carefully withdraws her fingers and mouth. Her face is a mess, soaked down to the chin.

“Amélie,” Angela breathes, hardly able to draw enough oxygen to speak. “Amélie, that was—”

Amélie cuts her off. She instantly stands, leaning forward and pulling Angela into a deep, sloppy kiss. Her tongue easily parts Angela’s lips, making sure the good doctor can taste herself.

Angela loses herself in the kiss, still dazed from her post-orgasm blur. Amélie pulls away sooner than she may have liked. “You’re so good, _chérie_. So good.”

Angela’s response is to quietly scoff, then pull Amélie to her so that she can embrace her, if only just for a moment.

They hold still like that for a moment. Their breathing is heavy, and the room is filled with the distinct smell of sex. Angela glances at her watch, and sighs.

“Amélie, I really should— I should wash up. I need to be in the medical ward in half an hour.”

Amélie gives a groan of irritation, but relents. “I know. Gérard will be looking for me any minute, too.”

Ah, Angela thinks. Gérard. The husband of the woman who just ate her out to orgasm in her office. That one. Her heart twists in her chest.

Amélie stands, giving her best attempt to straighten herself. She wipes her face with a wipe she pulls from a box on Angela’s desk, and tucks a few stray strands of hair behind her hair.

“Well. I suppose I should be going, then. Will I see you again, docteur?”

Angela clutches her fist at the implications of the question, but yet,

“Yes. You will see me soon, Amélie,” she says, still slouching in her chair, naked.

Amélie smiles. “Well then,” she leans in to place a brief kiss on Angela’s lips, _“à bientôt, ma belle.”_

Angela watches as Amélie shows herself out of the office, taking with her the fleeting fantasy that two of them could be anything that didn’t require sneaking and breaking a great many moral rules.

**Author's Note:**

> have a suggestion/request, or are interested in commissioning me? shoot me an email at shinycommissions@gmail.com ♡


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